


It gets lonely at the top

by postmodernsleaze



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, FIFA World Cup 2014, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postmodernsleaze/pseuds/postmodernsleaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Portugal is on the verge of being eliminated from the World Cup, and Cristiano Ronaldo's injury is progressively getting worse. Not knowing how to deal with any of it, he turns to perhaps the most unlikely person imaginable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It gets lonely at the top

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a short and smutty fill for the kinkmeme on LJ, but my muse decided otherwise. It's important to note that this takes place before Argentina's match against Switzerland and Portugal's elimination from the Cup. Some artistic liberty was taken in that Portugal never had a group game in Belo Horizonte and I'm pretty sure Alejandro Sabella doesn't approve of any of his players getting drunk during the competition. Enjoy!

They aren't friends.

There are other people Cristiano could talk to, doors that would open more easily for him than the one he's currently standing in front of.

There are his teammates, of course, not in the least Fabio who'd put his hand on his shoulder and had squeezed hard before leaving Brazil and the World Cup behind him. "You call me if there's anything, okay," he'd told him, searching his eyes to confirm that the message had registered loud and clear, "anything at all. Anything you need. I don't care what time it is, you pick up your phone and I'm there. This pressure you put on yourself, it's not..." he'd trailed off with an almost inaudible sigh and a tilt of his head. Cristiano had understood. Cristiano _understands_ , but it doesn't change a thing.

And of course, there's Ricky -always Ricky- who probably knows better than anyone else what it's like to deal with a serious injury. Eight months of not being able to play. Eight whole months; it's a lifetime in football and Cristiano envies him his strength, his unwavering faith, because he doesn't think he could survive if he was ever out for that long. He's barely surviving now.

So yes, there are other people for Cristiano to talk to, but none of them are _him_. He loves Fabio like a brother, loves playing alongside him for both club and country and thinks he deserves more credit than he does, because he's a great defender. As for Kaka, there's a part of Cristiano that will probably always belong to the Brazilian. A part the other man carries with him whenever he smiles, wide and honest and open because it's the only way he knows how. A glimmer in the quickness of his legs, but his left has never _truly_ recovered, and incredible as he once was on the field -and always will be, in Cristiano's opinion- his glory has faded now, his best years as a player of the beautiful game behind him. Cristiano needs someone who's still at his peak, someone who's dealt with injuries like his own and has overcome them. 

In an ironic twist of fate, he needs Lionel Messi.

The look on the Argentinian's face when he answers the quick knock on his door and finds Cristiano behind it is nothing short of comical. Or it would be comical, if Cristiano was in a better mood.

"Hey," he says, pocketing his hands in his designer jeans and swallowing the lump that's threatening to form in his throat. On his way over to the hotel, he hadn't really thought about this next part. 

"Uhm... hey," Lionel replies, still visibly confused, his eyes flitting to the left and slightly up so he can glance over Cristiano's shoulder. It's almost like he's expecting cameras.

"I came alone," he's quick to tell him.

"Okay..." he's still holding on to the door, not opening it any further than he has already but not closing it either. At least that's something.

“Are you going to let me in or what?” And there’s his confidence again, found in the face of the other man’s hesitation. He definitely doesn’t hesitate like this on the pitch, where it really matters. He’s not dumbfounded there, not by a long shot, and Cristiano wonders which of the two is staged. One has to be.

“Oh. Yeah, sure! Yeah. I mean––” Lionel –little _Leo_ – sort of stumblesteps out of the way and Cristiano rolls his eyes and brushes past him without another word. 

The room isn’t any nicer or grander than the rooms Portugal’s national team have been staying in. Belo Horizonte is one of Brazil’s largest cities and apparently has more than a few top of the bill, luxury hotels on offer for countries competing in the World Cup.

“So, what can I do for you?” Cristiano spins around again just in time to see Lionel close the door and rub at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Absent his kit and boots he looks average, almost plain. Not nearly as threatening as he does with a ball at his feet.

Not that Cristiano ever feels threatened by Lionel Messi. 

“I just thought we could…hang out.” It sounds ridiculous even to his own ears, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to outright admit to wanting Lionel’s advice. Lionel, who’s not only _blaugrana_ but arguably his one and only true competition.

“You want to hang out,” Lionel deadpans. He looks doubtful and a little tired already, and Cristiano guesses he can’t blame him. They rarely see each other off the field. 

“Yeah.” A defiant tilt of his chin, because despite that fact, he doesn’t think Lionel has the guts to send him away just like that. 

“You have my number, Cristiano. You could’ve called.”

He could have. They’re not friends, but they’re professionals. Lionel’s in his contacts.

“So?”

“So it’s eight thirty at night and we both have training tomorrow. There’s a World Cup to compete in, remember?”

Cristiano doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just turns around again and walks over to one of two beds in the room. He nods at the other. “Aguero?”

Lionel just stands there for a moment. He opens his mouth to say something but finally just sighs and makes his way over to a sleek mini-bar that isn’t quite so mini. “Yes.” He doesn’t ask how Cristiano knows, or guessed in this case. “Kun’s out. Treadmill, then swimming and a massage. He’s hoping to recover before the game against Switzerland.” A beat. Cristiano doesn’t miss the way Lionel glances down at his left leg. “Water?” He grabs two bottles and holds them up.

“No, thanks. I’m good.” Cristiano sits down at the edge of the bed. Lionel takes a seat right across from him. He places the bottle of water Cristiano declined on the night stand, unopened, and takes a swig of his own. 

“Are you really?”

Cristiano doesn’t answer right away. He mulls his reply over, grinds it between his teeth before spitting it out with no small amount of frustration and venom.

“No.”

Lionel nods, and he looks so calm and patient and _understanding_ , it’s infuriating.

“When I tore my hamstring last year, I felt so useless. Because that was the third time I’d been sidelined, you know? First that bruised thigh in the Cup that kept me out for a week, and then that muscle tear I suffered against Almeria… it all became a little much.”

Cristiano doesn’t say anything, just lets him talk. He didn’t expect so much unadulterated honesty from Lionel, especially not right away, but he does appreciate it.

“But neither of those things ultimately meant the end of the world. Or my career.” He’s careful picking his next words, Cristiano can hear as much in the way he hesitates and his voice goes soft. “Tendonitis is hard, but it won’t be the end of your world either… unless you continue to play like you are. You start and finish every single game.”

Cristiano’s mouth twists into a hard line and there’s a blaze in his eyes as he locks them with the Argentinian’s.

“There’s nothing _but_ the game. You, of all people, should know that. I can’t _not_ play.”

“Yes, you can,” Lionel replies simply, as if it really is that easy. But it isn’t. He might as well suggest Cristiano stops breathing air. “ _I_ did. I told the club and everyone else that I wouldn’t return to the field until my body told me I was fine. Not a minute earlier.”

“I’m their Captain.”

“You are.” A beat. “You’re also human.”

Cristiano frowns and shoots him a dirty look. It suddenly dawns on him what a stupid idea it was to go running to Lionel for advice –an opinion, anything- on this. It’s easy for him to talk. He’s seen the game against Bosnia Herzegovina. After taking a return pass from Pipita –Gonzalo Higuain won’t ever be called anything else in Cristiano’s head- he’d ran from right to left but not once in that run had he glanced up. There’d been one final look before he’d received the ball but not again before he’d dispatched it right into the bottom left corner of the goal.

People often wonder how Lionel Messi does what he does, but Cristiano _knows_. He’s so good, he’s able to plot his coordinates just by the markings he sees on the pitch. Cristiano knows, because he does the exact same thing.

There’s one very vital and important difference between them, though. 

Lionel is currently playing some of the most beautiful football in his career, on the world’s biggest stage, and Cristiano is failing to meet expectations. How could he possibly think Lionel would understand? He’s given himself wings, has earned all the love his country’s got to give, while all _he_ ’s been doing is crashing down hard.

“Forget it. You don’t understand.” He makes to stand up, but Lionel beats him to it. He’s towering over him for a change, a groove between his furrowed brows and his hands on his hips.

“I don’t understand what? Injuries? The pressure?”

Cristiano swallows.

“I was 13 years old when I was dispatched to Barcelona-“

“I was 12 when I left for Lisbon!” Cristiano interjects.

“Shut up!” Lionel snaps, and while Cristiano glares at him for it, he’s so taken aback by Lionel’s sudden outburst that he does. 

“I never played professional football in South America. I’ll always belong to Barca. Portugal loves you, but do you have any idea what Argentina-”

“You scored four goals for them already. Don’t come to me with that bullshit.” Cristiano sounds bitter. He knows he does.

“Not everything is about scoring!”

“Of course it is!”

Lionel’s running his hands through his hair in frustration and Cristiano thinks that this, among other things, is why he rightly deserved to win the Ballon D’Or last year. Lionel’s a brilliant player, the very best depending on who’s asked, but it’s like he doesn’t even _care_ that he is. He doesn’t care about the amazing goals he scores. Not enough. He himself has never pretended to want to be anything but the very best at what he does, and it irritates him beyond measure that Lionel’s seemingly not as passionate. He’s humble without having any reason to be, and isn’t that the worst kind of vanity?

Not about scoring… yeah, _right_.

“Like I said, forget it.” This time Cristiano does stand up, but Lionel stops him in his tracks when he speaks up again.

“I understand what it’s like not being able to perform like you should. To do bad.”

Though Cristiano knows he hasn’t been performing well, and will be the very first to admit as much, it’s still strange to hear Lionel say it so frankly. His shoulders sag a little and he looks away, at the floor and the Argentinian flag that’s pinned against the hotel room wall.

“Sometimes, you just need to give yourself a break.”

Cristiano huffs and clenches his hands into fists. He doesn’t want to stick around to hear Lionel say it’s okay to go easy on yourself once in a while. To do less than your best, because _it’s not_.

When he makes his way to the door this time, Lionel doesn’t stop him.

 

 

Ghana’s keeper manages to pluck the ball out of the air, but it slips through his fingers and bounces off the field. As if it’s exactly where it had been meaning to go all along, it lands right in front of Cristiano’s feet. He scores almost on autopilot, sending the ball into the back of the net without a moment’s hesitation. It’s the 80th minute and he’s just brought Portugal up 2-1, but he doesn’t celebrate.

He knew the stakes going onto the field. The chances of advancing were slim at best and with only ten minutes and some change remaining on the clock, the goal difference is just too great to overcome.

He’s scored, but they’re losing anyway. They’re out of the Cup. His knee is throbbing with pain.

_Not everything is about scoring!_

Cristiano makes a face and jogs stubbornly on.

 

 

Back at the hotel, Cristiano makes time for each and every one of his teammates. He tries to lift their spirits, gives more hugs and slaps more shoulders than he has in a long while. He pays the staff members a visit, too, thanks them for their excellent care and making their World Cup campaign possible in the first place. The only words that pass his lips are words of comfort and hope for the European Cup in 2016, but inside he feels empty. 

He’s quick to console everyone else, but he can’t console himself. 

When he’s alone in his room later that evening, the weight of a nation bears down hard on his shoulders. He feels like he’s let Portugal down, like perhaps he could have done more. He can already imagine what the headlines will spell tomorrow, not least of all those of the Portuguese newspapers. 

There’s a sudden ache that washes over him. He longs for home. Not for Portugal, or the island of Madeira but _home_. The taste of his mother’s cooking and the warmth of his son’s arms wrapped around his neck. The sound of his sisters’ laughter. Hugo has travelled with him to Brazil, but he’s only one piece of the puzzle. 

He could call, of course, but he doesn’t trust himself not to lose it when he hears Cristiano Jr.’s voice over the phone. 

So Cristiano decides to distract himself the only way he knows how; by working.

Though he knows better than to cast aside the advice the team’s doctor has given him, he takes to the tufted carpet covering the hotel room floor and starts exercising. He does a series of press-ups, then push-ups, then sit-ups. He tries to do leg lifts, too, but only manages ten before his knee starts burning.

Cristiano curses under his breath and gets up only to flop back down on his bed. He stays still for several minutes, just staring up at the ceiling, before he reaches for his cellphone. He hasn’t looked at it since leaving the dressing room.

There are 35 messages and four missed calls.

He swipes through all of them and deletes most. The only messages he keeps are those of family members and Real Madrid players. Two from Ricky.

It’s not until he’s almost done that _his_ name pops up on the screen. Cristiano’s thumb hovers over the screen for a moment. Tap.

****

**MESSI**  
 **don’t exercise. go easy on your leg.**

**go easy on yourself.**

No _you deserved better_ , _the better team lost today_ or _I’m sorry_. It’s oddly refreshing. Cristiano doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t delete the messages either. He chews his lip and takes a deep breath, finally makes the call.

She answers after the first ring.

“Mãe?” His voice cracks. “Put Cristianito on.”

 

 

Lionel doesn’t score and it can’t be done in 90 minutes, but Argentina goes through anyway. Switzerland is out of the Cup; another South American country advances to the quarter finals.

Cristiano knows calling is futile this soon after the match, so he sends Angel a message.

****

**que golazo! well done, angelito, argentina deserves it.**

****

Angel doesn’t text back, but then Cristiano doesn’t expect him to. He’s too busy celebrating, just like Cristiano was too busy picking his heart up off the field after the match against Ghana.

He doesn’t really _mean_ to text Lionel, it just sort of happens. 

****

**congrats on your win. everything’s possible now.**

****

To his surprise, his phone vibrates not five minutes later.

****

**MESSI**  
 **thank you. difficult match. it was a team effort.**

Cristiano makes a face, because of course it was a team effort. He hadn’t meant to imply otherwise. He doesn’t get a chance to tap out the _I know that_ burning at his fingertips before the next message already pops up on the screen.

****

**MESSI**  
 **when’s your nt leaving Brazil again? tomorrow?**

Cristiano scowls. 

****

**fuck you.**

****

The reply is instantaneous.

****

**MESSI**  
 **didn’t mean it like that. want to see you before you leave the country.**

Cristiano raises his eyebrows at the screen and taps out a quick **why ?**

****

**MESSI**  
 **because you stormed out last time.**

He's unbelievable!

**because you weren’t getting it.**

A minute, then three pass by.

****

**MESSI**  
 **when?**

Cristiano sighs.

****

**tomorrow**.

****

****

**MESSI**  
 **have to go now. my room, tonight at 10.**

There’s a part of him that wants to text back that he’s busy, but the truth is that he’s not. All his bags are already packed for an early morning departure and he wasn’t planning on leaving the hotel, anyway.

****

**ok.**

****

 

 

It’s not Lionel but Sergio Aguero who greets him. The striker swings open the door and leans back a little, appraising Cristiano through dark lashes.

“Ronaldo,” he says simply, and Cristiano cocks a questioning brow. Aguero's dressed in a loose shirt and boxers and is missing a sock. He’s swaying on his feet a little, which makes Cristiano guess he’s not all that sober anymore.

“Sergio,” he replies dryly. It's a little strange; Sergio is Ramos to him.

Aguero (Sergio!) sways forward a little and squints his eyes at him. “Ay dios mio. You _do_ wear a lot of hair gel.” 

“Kun!” Cristiano hears Lionel laugh in the background, and Sergio breaks out in something that holds the middle between a series of giggles and chuckling –it isn’t a very manly sound- as he steps aside to let Cristiano enter the room. 

“Come on in! It’s a beautiful day! A beautiful evening! A beautiful life!” Cristiano looks back over his shoulder at Sergio and he can’t help it. He can’t help _himself_.

“Easy, you haven’t won the cup yet.”

“Ah!” Sergio points a finger at him, smiling from ear to ear despite the remark. “YET!”

It makes a smile tug at the corners of Cristiano’s own lips, one that gets a little wider when he turns to Lionel and finds him not as overly excited as his roommate but just as visibly happy.

It hurts, but only a little. What’s done is done, and much as he wants to begrudge Lionel and Argentina the win, they were never even in Portugal’s group. They earned their place in the quarter finals, fair and square.

“Hey,” he smiles and extends a hand, “congratulations… again.”

“Thanks… again,” Lionel jokes and slaps his palm with his own, squeezes. When Cristiano lets go, the Argentinian runs his hand through his hair.

“Such a touching moment,” Sergio quips behind his back, “I should snap a picture! How much do you think it would sell for?”

“A lot.” They answer in unison, and Sergio laughs loudly.

“Kun, weren’t you on your way out?” Lionel asks, casually enough.

“Hm?” Comes the reply, just as Cristiano says “What, dressed like that?”

“Yes,” and he could be answering either one of them or both, “didn’t you say you were going to meet up with Gonzalo?”

“Oh!” It’s like Sergio all of a sudden remembers that he’s a football player who’s team just won a very important match and there are teammates to celebrate the occasion with. He makes a bee-line for the mini-bar and retrieves a couple choice bottles from it. Cristiano knows Pipita; he doesn’t really shy away from a good drink from time to time.

“Does Sabello approve of this?” Cristiano asks Lionel, as Sergio _sauntersways_ over and throws an arm around the man’s neck. He gets a one-shoulder shrug and an apologetic grin in reply.

“We did it, hombre,” Sergio’s flashing Lionel a toothy smile and doesn’t let go until Lionel pats him on the back and murmurs an “I know, Kun. We did. We really did.”

Again, Cristiano thinks they might be getting a little ahead of themselves. Then again, lots of title favourites are out already. Spain didn’t even make it out of the group stages.

“Right!” Sergio declares, before planting a wet kiss on Lionel’s cheek. Either he’s a touchy drunk or they have the sort of longstanding friendship that allows for public displays of affection. Cristiano wagers it’s a combination of the two.

“You guys,” and this time Sergio spins around on his heel and addresses Cristiano, gesturing between the two of them, “have fun. I know _I_ ’m going to.” He holds the tiny bottles, the necks of which are wedged between his fingers, up to eye level and waves them at him. Cristiano nods, rather amused.

When Sergio’s gone, Lionel breathes out a laugh and makes his way over to the plasma screen that’s mounted on the hotel room wall, right next to his country’s flag. Cristiano remembers it from last time.

“Do you play?” Lionel asks.

“What?”

He holds up an Xbox 360 controller. “I’ve got FIFA 14 and FIFA World Cup Brazil.”

“What?” Cristiano repeats, then adds, “this is why you wanted to see me? To play a game?”

Lionel starts up the Xbox and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

“Well… yes.”

“Your country just advanced to the quarter finals of the World Cup,” Cristiano points out helpfully, as if Lionel’s somehow forgotten, “and you want to celebrate that by playing FIFA with me.”

“You’re the one who wanted to hang out,” Lionel throws back.

Cristiano purses his lips.

“I prefer PES.”

Lionel just laughs and shakes his head, scoots over. 

 

 

“What’s Benz even _doing_?” Cristiano whines, growing increasingly more frustrated with the pixelated version of his teammate that’s running around on the screen like a chicken without a head. He’s jamming buttons, toes curled into the carpet.

“Well, not scoring, that’s for sure,” Lionel replies dryly. Halfway through the game, they somehow found their way onto the floor instead of the bed. Lionel’s got his legs crossed one over the other and is leaning forward, watching the screen intently. Barcelona’s leading 3-2. There are only three minutes of regular time left on the clock.

Cristiano’s leaning back against the bed, his left leg extended in front of him and his right drawn up. 

“This is bullshit,” he huffs, trying to make Real play fast on the counter, like they usually do when they’re playing on a real field, in the actual Estadio Bernabéu and not a virtual version of it.

Lionel, however, has proven himself to not only be a great football player but also pretty damn decent with a controller in his hands. The tip of his tongue is poking through his teeth and he’s not deterred whatsoever by Cristiano’s complaining.

“Seriously, this is _bullshit_ ,” Cristiano repeats emphatically, when Barcelona gets a corner. It might be just a game, but somehow it’s still a competition. Nothing between them can ever be anything else.

“Always complaining,” Lionel teases. In the game, Xavi takes the corner but the ball goes wide. 

Cristiano looks away from the screen for a moment to frown at him.

“I don’t complain,” he starts, and is quick to talk over Lionel’s barked out laugh, “when I don’t have a reason to.”

“You must have lots and lots of reasons.”

“ _Cabron_ ,” Cristiano mutters under his breath, and gets the better of Piqué on screen. Though he’s not nearly as selfish a player as the media likes to say he is –not even close- he makes it a point not to pass during the resulting attack, to have the virtual version of himself take the shot.

He scores. _Beautifully_.

Lionel throws his head back at about the same time Cristiano extends both arms into the air. On the screen, virtual!Cristiano jumps up high and back around, taking on a wide stance and holding his arms out next to his body. He’s shouting. Marcelo’s the first to jump around his neck.

3-3. Cristiano misses club football.

Neither of them manages to score again after that and the game ends in a draw. It’s not a result either one of them would be happy with if they were playing a Clasico for real, but right here and like this, they’re quite content to let the result stand as it does. Lionel a little more so than Cristiano.

“Half a minute longer and I’d have scored again. I was _this_ close.”

Lionel stretches, long and lazy like a cat, and shakes his head. He lets the controller slip from his hands and land on the bed with a dull thud. “No, you wouldn’t have. Half a minute longer and you’d have lost. Be glad for the draw; it’s a fair result.”

“What game were you playing? We were dominating your blaugrana asses all through the second half!” Cristiano’s gesturing wildly, ready to get into a heated discussion but Lionel’s not taking the bait.

“Oh, shut up, Cristiano,” he groans, but he doesn’t sound tired or annoyed. If anything, he sounds amused.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.” A little childish, maybe, but Cristiano means it.

“Fine. I won’t,” Lionel replies almost pleasantly, decisive, and sits up a little straighter, turns his upper body around to face him. Cristiano wants to say something to that along the lines of _good_ but he doesn’t get a chance to before Lionel changes the subject.

“How’s your leg?”

He makes a face. Competing with Lionel, even in a virtual reality, even just for a little while, had momentarily made him forget about the fact that he’s still very much injured. He likely won’t be making the same moves as pixelated!Cristiano for at least another month, possibly two.

“Nothing’s changed.” It’s what he’d told the press, too. The honest truth; he’d entered this competition with tendonitis and is leaving it in exactly the same state.

Lionel nods. “I’m sorry.”

 _Ah_. There it is.

Cristiano shrugs and slides his controller away from him, over the carpet. “Me too. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Well, there is, but I just told you I won’t tell you what to do.”

Cristiano rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to tell me to go easy on myself again…”

“I’m not going to tell you anything!”

They’re quiet for a few beats. It’s Lionel who speaks up first.

“I need you fit again, though.”

“Oh, _you_ need me fit again, huh?” Cristiano gives him a pointed look.

“No, I do,” Lionel replies, earnestly. He’s chewing on his lower lip almost like he’s contemplating something. And he’s avoiding Cristiano’s eyes, Cristiano notices, choosing instead to study the rest of his face, his neck, his mouth. “There’s no one else but you.”

This time he does meet Cristiano’s eyes, just in time to catch the confusion in them.

“What?”

“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”

The expression on Cristiano’s face remains neutral. “So much for humble, little Leo. The press would have a field day with that quote.”

“Shut-” Lionel stops himself before he can finish the sentence. He briefly pinches his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, he fixes them on Cristiano with even more intensity than before.

“It’s not about the press, or my image. You know that I’m right.”

The sudden warmth spreading through Cristiano’s chest is proof enough that he does, but he pushes anyway.

“There’s Neymar.”

“He’s young.”

“Zlatan.”

“He’s overly confident.”

“So am I.”

Lionel doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re allowed to be.”

“What about Sua-”

“Don’t tell me you’ve become a pinnacle of modesty all of a sudden!”

Cristiano smirks and shakes his head. “Okay, okay. I _am_ the best.” If he sounds pleased and a little boyish when he says it, he sees no reason to be ashamed of that. Everything he’s got, he’s worked incredibly hard for. Nothing was ever handed to him.

“One of the best,” Lionel corrects him.

Cristiano respects the Argentinian enough not to argue with him, not even playfully. He might have done so five years ago, back when his ego and temperament still got the best of him on a regular basis, but he’s man enough to recognize now, and without question, that Lionel is as good a football player as he is. A better one, depending on how they are both playing at any given moment.

“Guess it’s not so lonely at the top, after all, is it?”

“I guess not.” 

They fall silent and Cristiano gives Lionel a gentle sort of smile, of the kind that he hasn’t given him before. Lionel licks his lips rather nervously and doesn’t smile back. There’s a a change in the air between them, a kind of tension that –though it can still be cut with a knife- is entirely foreign to them, and Cristiano just _knows_ somehow, what’s going to happen. 

He lets it.

Lionel’s tentative in a way that he never is in front of goal, but he still looks every bit as determined. It’s in the eyes, Cristiano thinks.

Lionel leans over, halts for a moment to see whether Cristiano is going to jerk his head away (he’s not) and kisses him.

Cristiano doesn’t respond right away. He lets Lionel’s mouth brush over his, lets him nip at his lower lip before he sighs softly and kisses back. It’s different from kissing a woman in that it gets heated a lot faster. Cristiano can’t remember the last time he kissed and teeth actually snagged on lips a little too sharp for comfort, or tongues met halfway, impatient. It isn’t long before it becomes a struggle for dominance, Lionel’s hands clutching at his shirt and one of Cristiano’s on the back of Lionel’s head, fingers threaded through his short, brown hair. 

His heart is pounding in his chest. He doesn’t think it can ever be any other way, not with them. Not with Lionel.

It’s Lionel who pulls away first, breathless. His lips are parted slightly and look fuller than they did a minute ago, saliva making them glisten in the dim light of the room. Cristiano bites his own at the sight.

Lionel doesn’t say anything, just stares intently at him as he lets go of the fabric of his shirt and runs both hands down, slips them under the hem so his fingers are touching bare flesh. They’re warm and surprisingly soft as Lionel drags them down and over his skin, making his stomach go taut in their wake. Cristiano swallows visibly, leaning back against the edge of the bed and finding some much needed support there.

“I want to…” Lionel finally croaks, “I mean.”

“Yes,” Cristiano is quick to answer, though he doesn’t know what it is Lionel wants, not really.

It doesn’t matter; he’ll give it.

There’s no flush spreading over Lionel’s cheeks, not that Cristiano can see –and thank God for that- but he still ducks his head as if there was when he reaches for the buckle of Cristiano’s belt and unclasps it. It’s big and shiny, shaped like the GUCCI logo, and gets in the way a little as Lionel sets to work on the buttons of his jeans. Cristiano stretches his right leg the same way he has his left, and spreads both a little wider, his hips rolling up when Lionel gets his jeans open enough to slide his hand down the front of them.

Though the angle must be off for him, Lionel strokes his cock like it’s what he’s been doing for years; jerking Cristiano off instead of besting him on the field. There’s an underlying eagerness behind the way he touches him that not so much pushes Cristiano’s buttons as jams them down all at once and gets them stuck in place. Lionel’s twisting his wrist and sweeping the pad of his thumb over the head _just so_ but it’s his eyes, alternating between looking down between Cristiano’s legs and up at his face, that really do it. They’re glazed over and filled with a mixture of lust and awe, like he can’t really believe Cristiano is letting him do this. He is struggling to keep his own eyes from fluttering shut but he watches Lionel like that, through dark lashes, and groans.

“Bom,” slips from his lips and, “meu deus, Leo.” He gives in and lets his eyelids fall shut, but he can still hear the sudden hitch in the other man’s breath.

“Say that again.”

Lionel’s fingers tighten around the base of him and the sensation is almost too much. Cristiano hisses through his teeth and his hand flies to Lionel’s thigh in an attempt to steady himself.

“What?” He sounds a little lost.

“Leo,” Lionel keens, like he’s the one who’s balancing on the edge of orgasm.

Cristiano’s jaw goes slack and he jerks his knee up again. Close, so close.

“Please,” Lionel whines, again, and it’s so strange, even through the haze of pleasure clouding his mind, to hear him ask – no, _beg_ \- for anything.

There’s a faint grin tugging at the right corner of Cristiano’s mouth, and with some effort he forces himself to open his eyes again. He locks them with Lionel, leans forward.

“Leo,” he whispers against the Argentinian’s lips, and then he inhales sharply through his nose and moans, the sound coming from somewhere deep down in his throat. He pinches his eyes shut and lets his orgasm roll over him in waves, spilling all over Lionel’s hand and his shirt.

After he feels boneless, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Lionel’s dabbing at the mess he’s made, wiping his fingers on Cristiano’s already tainted shirt. He arches a pointed brow at that, but doesn’t protest, too busy focusing on the erratic beating of his heart to make an attempt at speaking.

Turns out he doesn’t need to, anyway, because Lionel’s leaning over him again and catching his lips with his. Cristiano kisses back lazily. It’s wet and a little sloppy and everything he wants post-orgasm.

“Hmm,” he smiles, pleased, and stretches. Lionel runs a hand through his hair and draws back. He’s not smiling but he doesn’t look deflated, either, like he regrets what just happened or something. 

That’s good.

“Gimme a minute and I’ll…” Cristiano balls his hand into a fist and shakes it rather obscenely. He doesn’t want to give himself time to freak out about the whole thing.

Lionel snorts and shakes his head. Cristiano frowns, confused.

“Kun’ll be back soon. I’m sort of surprised he’s been gone this long, actually. I thought he might walk in on us.”

Cristiano lifts both brows and tilts his head to the side.

“Did you _want_ him to walk in on us?”

Lionel throws him a look. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Hey,” Cristiano says, raising his hands in a mock apologetic manner, “I don’t know the kind of kinky shit you’re into.”

“It’s not like that. Not anymore.”

Cristiano wonders if he should feel surprised. He doesn’t … not really. Sergio and Lionel make sense, in a way that the two of _them_ certainly don’t.

He nods understandingly –even though he doesn’t have a clue about gay relationships, let alone the one in question- and directs his attention to the mess on his shirt. He makes a face.

“I can’t wear this out.” He draws the offending material up to expose his stomach and starts to tuck himself away, buttons up.

Lionel’s eyes briefly linger on the sight of his abs. Cristiano knows they do; by now he instinctively feels it whenever he is being looked at. He doesn’t mind.

“You can borrow a shirt if you really—“

Cristiano chuckles, not unkindly, and buckles his belt. “No offense, but we’re not exactly the same size.”

The corners of Lionel’s mouth drop a little. “I was going to suggest one of Kun’s.”

“We’re not the same size, either.”

“You’re close enough.”

Cristiano cocks a brow. “Are you saying I’m built like him?”

“Trust me, it wouldn’t be an insult if I did.”

Cristiano laughs and shrugs. Fair enough.

“Won’t he mind, though? Aguero?”

“Won’t Aguero mind _what_?” It’s a good thing Cristiano didn’t take his sweet time making himself decent again, because Sergio enters without knocking (why should he knock? It’s his room, too) and stumbles in. There’s a big grin plastered on his face and his heavy lidded eyes give away his advanced state of drunkenness. 

Cristiano is momentarily stunned and turns to Lionel. “ _Seriously_ , does Sabella approve of this?” Paulo would be furious if any of the Portuguese internationals got drunk during a tournament. _Cristiano_ , as their Captain, would be furious.

Lionel, for the first time, looks a little worried. “Kun, just how much have you had to drink?”

“Not that much,” Sergio assures him, waving his Captain’s concern away. At least his speech isn’t slurred, Cristiano thinks, and he’s still managing to walk mostly straight as he approaches them. “Gonzalo still had a full sized bottle, though.”

Cristiano snorts. “Of course he did.”

Sergio halts and frowns, hands on his hips. “What are you guys doing on the floor?”

“Playing FIFA,” Lionel replies smoothly, nodding at the game system in front of them. “Actually, that’s how Cristiano managed to get coke all over his shirt. Can he borrow one of yours?”

Cristiano turns his head towards Lionel and gives him a bemused half-smile. 

“Yeah, hold on,” Sergio walks over to what Cristiano assumes is his closet (it is) and starts rummaging through it. What he pulls out is a baby blue shirt, covered in horizontal stripes that alternate in colour between dark blue, bright red and canary yellow. It buttons up near the collar and is a minor assault to the eyes.

Cristiano immediately likes it.

He gets up –Lionel, too- off the floor, pulls his own shirt over his head and finds Sergio’s only a little too tight and short on him. It works.

“Thanks.”

“I could get this washed for you, if you want,” Lionel’s picked up the stained shirt and is holding it in his hands.

“Nah,” Cristiano tells him, “chuck it. It’s not like I don’t have others. Besides, I have an early flight tomorrow.” He casts a look at his watch. “ _Porra_ , I should be going.”

“Okay,” Lionel says, swaying on his feet a little when Kun all too happily swings an arm around his shoulders. “We did it, hombre,” Sergio repeats his earlier words to Lionel, looking at him in a way that suggests he's already forgotten about Cristiano's presence, or assumes him to be already gone.

“Right,” he says, “thanks again for the shirt.” He catches Lionel’s eyes. “And for playing. I had fun.”

“No problem,” Lionel tells him, still clutching Cristiano’s shirt, “me too.”

Cristiano’s gone before Sergio can properly follow up the confused look on his face with a question.

 

 

His vacation starts and eventually it isn’t so bad. Portugal’s early exit from the World Cup stage hurts a little less every day. He flies to Greece with his brother and a group of his closest friends, takes them out to dinner every evening and allows himself to indulge in a good glass of wine, sometimes two, but never more. He wears shorts that he thinks make him look good even though his brother rolls his eyes and shakes his head every morning he comes out in them. He even figures out what brand Sergio’s shirt is (Kenzo) and what collection it belonged to (2013; spring), after which he promptly orders three in a size that fits him perfectly.

On the phone, he talks to Fabio and Pepe and makes plans to meet up soon. One evening he stays in until 10 PM and just plays poker online with Benz and Sergio. He almost dies laughing, too, at the latter’s stories of his newborn son and how babies are “really, really cute but also totally gross. _So_ gross, man.”

Lionel text him a few times, and he texts back. Casual conversation along the lines of **how’s the weather there?** and **not as good as in Brazil. how did training go?** and **don’t tell but sometimes i think i’m surrounded by actual idiots. you should’ve seen the shot di maria missed today.**

They don’t talk about what happened in Lionel’s hotel room. Not once.

He still watches the matches, of course, every single one. Not obsessively, though; he’s distracted and that’s a good thing. He gets even more distracted when Junior joins him, allowing him to pour all the love and devotion he usually brings with him on the field into his son.

It’s not until Argentina advances to the final that he gets a text that manages to shift his focus for a moment.

****

**LEO MESSI**  
 **i miss you.**

**i mean i want you here.**

Cristiano looks at his watch and tries to determine what time it is in Brazil. Late.

****

**are you drunk?**

****

Not an unreasonable assumption, considering. 

****

**LEO MESSI**  
 **no. we won & i was just thinking of you. **

**you like winning.**

Cristiano pulls a face at his cellphone. He debates calling Lionel, because he’s not sure whether this is some sick joke, a way for the Argentinian to pour salt in his proverbial wounds, or if Lionel is lying and actually piss drunk when there’s still a final to play. Either way, it’s bad.

****

**LEO MESSI**  
 **i kept your shirt. haven’t had it washed yet.**

Cristiano’s heart shoots up in his throat and stays there, pounding rapidly. He looks around the beach. Cristiano Jr. is happily jumping over waves with his cousins, his brother keeping a close eye on them. 

He leans back in his beach chair as casually as he can manage and peers down under his dark sunglasses at the screen.

****

**that’s disgusting. i thought i told you to throw it away**.

****

The response comes quickly, as almost all of Lionel’s texts do.

****

**LEO MESSI**  
 **i know. i don’t like being told what to do either.**

It makes him smile, unbidden.

****

**you haven’t been wearing it, have you?**

****

****

**LEO MESSI**  
 **no. came close a few times but not that.**

Desire hits him like a punch to the stomach.

****

**i jerked off in it. you wear so much cologne, it still sort of smells like you.**

****

Cristiano feels his palms go clammy. He doesn’t know what to reply to that. He wonders if he even _should_ because even though he’s alone now, he’s still in public and not bound to stay that way for much longer. 

**fuck.**

Just the single word. He doesn’t know what else to send; too flustered all of a sudden. It bothers him, because Lionel shouldn’t be able to have this kind of effect on him.

****

**wish we could.**

****

Alright, that’s it.

****

**is that what you want ? for me to throw you down and fuck you into the mattress ? show you who’s boss ?**

****

The reply doesn’t come quite as quick after that.

****

**LEO MESSI**  
 **yes.**

Nothing more than that, but it’s enough to make Cristiano’s blood sing.

****

**you’d let me?**

****

****

**LEO MESSI**  
 **fuck yes.**

**that’s what i think of at night. before i go to sleep. helps me focus .**

Cristiano wants to tell him something sensible like _you should focus on the Cup_ or _don’t you have better things to do ?_ but he doesn’t. It’s still a little surreal to him, the fact that Lionel –Lionel _Messi_ \- jerked him off and is now sending him texts like this. While Argentina’s in the final and he’s on vacation with an injured leg. He doesn’t know what they’re doing, or what any of it means. If it means anything.

He hesitates, shifts on the beach chair and reaches down to adjust himself in his swimshorts as subtly as possible. He looks out over the ocean, and back at his phone when it vibrates again.

**LEO MESSI  
sorry. i didn’t mean… i don’t know what i’m doing. **

Cristiano doesn’t either when he taps back **do you have skype ?**

The ID popping up almost immediately from half across the world makes him smile. He stretches his left leg –careful! Just be careful- and draws his right arm back behind his head, folds it as he tilts his face up towards the sun and closes his eyes.

Neither one of them will be lonely that night.

**Author's Note:**

> There might be a second part to this, depending on whether the mood and muse strike again. We shall see! :)


End file.
